


Little Bit Of Everything

by Aylwyyn228



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Recovering, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Protective Steve Rogers, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 09:17:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12745443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aylwyyn228/pseuds/Aylwyyn228
Summary: He really oughta have known. No one could outrun Steve Rogers.He'd given it a hell of a go though.





	Little Bit Of Everything

**Author's Note:**

> Blanket warning here for Bucky's mental health. The suicidal thoughts are mainly abstract thoughts about the possibility rather than any actual intent. 
> 
> Enjoy!

This had become his post over the last ten days. He liked it high up, especially in the early evening, when the day’s heat started to let up a bit. The low wall that ringed the gravelled roof of the tenement block offered a good seat, views over the Puerto Madero in the far distance. The towers were lit up a night.

Sometimes he thought that someone might be watching back out of one of the little patchworks of light.

He kinda liked the idea.

The wall was a squeeze, but if he ducked beneath the safety railing, he’d found he could lean against it, wedge at least one foot on top of a cluster of water pipes. If he dangled the other over the edge of the building then he couldn’t be seen from the roof’s access hatch, not immediately anyway.

It was a good place to wait.

His cigarette was beginning to burn low.

Who’d’ve thought you’d still be able to get Luckies?

He heard the hatch open, the scrape of footsteps across the gravel behind him, hesitantly exploring. He took a deep drag, and waited for them to halt. 

“You found me.”

“You let me. Why?”

Always ‘why?’ with Stevie. Most things didn’t really have a reason. Or a point.

Or maybe that was just him.

He flicked a swirl of ash onto the brick. “Couldn’t shake ya. You’re like a goddamn bloodhound.”

The shuffle of feet as Steve came nearer. “Did I ever get close?”

“In Ushuaia. Saw ya in the street.”

“That why you left?”

“No.”

He’d gone to Tierra del Fuego on a whim. Something in him wanted to see just how far he could get. From Siberia. From New York. Course, he’d eventually hit ocean and to go any further south he’d’ve had to find someone willing to ship him to Antarctica.

It was too fucking cold that far south anyway.

He stubbed out his cigarette and dropped it over the side. Glanced around.

Steve was wearing a shirt and jeans. Leather jacket over, zipped up despite the warmth. Could cover a weapon.

He smiled.

As if.

Steve had his hands shoved in his pockets. That same damn way he’d used to when his clothes were half a size too big.

Risky.

He’d killed a diplomatic advisor in Belgrade. Bruno Nikolic. Big guy, balding, ex-military. His wristwatch caught in the pocket lining of his suit pants. Couldn’t draw.

Shame really.

Nikolic’d been packing a Magnum. Desert Eagle, Mk VII. That’d’ve put a hell of a hole in his head point blank.

Steve shifted uncomfortably under his not-quite-present-stare. “Why Argentina?”

He looked away, shrugged. “Die Spinne. I kinda liked the irony.”

Steve either didn’t get the joke, or didn’t find it very funny.

Well, it weren’t as if he’d had a lot of practice in the last half century.

He shifted his foot off the pipes and over the edge, hitched away from the railing to give himself more space. But Steve made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. He stepped forward, his outstretched hand trembling. Jaw held too tight. “Please.”

Oh.

He looked over the edge. Grey sidewalk. A hundred and fifty feet straight down between his boots.

If he leaned over, he’d go down headfirst.

That’d probably do it.

“Bucky, please.”

 Steve was closer. Still not touching, but within arm’s reach. For a second, Bucky could hear his anguished yell, ripped away by the rush of wind.

“Been there already, Stevie. I ain’t keen to repeat the experience.”

Not by choice, anyway.

Steve gave a strained laugh. “Come over here then, jerk. You’re makin me dizzy.”

He’d tried to pitch it jokingly. The tone teasing. But he didn’t manage it. There was an edge to Steve’s voice, one that announced pretty fucking eloquently how close to the precipice he was himself.

So he got up, hitching his feet underneath him and standing smoothly. Toes overhanging the lip. Right on the edge. Right on the limit.

Because he could.

And because no one could stop him.

Then he climbed back over the railing.

Got his first real look at Steve up close. His eyes were definitely watery.

“Shit, punk, you really thought I was gonna check out?”

Steve gave a wet laugh, utterly lacking in humour. He sniffed, swiped at his nose. “Kinda thought ya already had. Every day, for three months… Christ.”

God, that face. It was up against some pretty stiff competition, but he reckoned that Stevie’s trying-not-to-cry face was the very worst thing in the world.

“Stevie-“

He didn’t get any further than that because Steve grabbed him and pulled him into a hug that was probably better described as a grapple. He jerked towards the knife inside his jacket before his brain caught up with the fact that he was almost certainly not about to be thrown to the ground.

Steve let out a shaky breath. “Why’d you leave?”

That was a hell of a question. One he really oughta have worked out a punchy answer to in the last three months. But then again, he’d spent most of the last three months trying his damnedest not to think about anything at all.

He’d taken too long. Steve pulled back.

And Bucky just wanted to curl up in a ball to get away from all that scrutiny. He wanted to tear his own skin off.

Steve rubbed his eyes. “Are you livin here?”

“Fourth floor.”

Steve gave a shaky smile, gestured to the steps. “Well, would you mind? I ain’t really got any better with heights.”

***

The quiet crept all over his skin the whole walk down to the apartment. Steve’s silent presence at his back the whole way.

People were supposed to make small talk, and he wasn’t so fucked up that he couldn’t recognise an awkward silence. But the section of his brain which dealt with language appeared to have packed its bags and upped sticks.

Well, apart from the running commentary in Russian providing him with escape routes, most of which involved taking out large sections of the building, and vast numbers of civilian casualties.

Kapitan Ivan Kozlov. KGB secondment. 1966-7.

He had a short tenure. The kind that ended with redacted documents and retouched photos.

Bucky could only imagine it was because he never really mastered the fundamentals of a _secret_ service.

At least reaching his apartment appeared to drown out Kozlov’s incessant droning.

He tossed the key onto the sofa in the corner. He doubted he’d be needing it again.

“Coffee?”

Fucking stupid thing to say.

“Yeah. That’s fine.”

Steve was looking over the apartment, a faint frown on his face.

Bucky could guess what he was thinking. But guess what Stevie, the kind of flat you can rent in cash by the week, without giving a name? They’re the same the world over.

He put the water on as slowly as possible, taking an obscene amount of time over every step. At least he had the excuse of having to do it one handed.

Because he didn’t want to talk about it.

He didn’t want to talk about any of it.

He poured the water over the world’s worst instant coffee, bought from the scuzziest convenience store in Buenos Aires, along with the imported Lucky Strikes and a pack of beer that did nothing to blur his jagged edges.

He oughta have bought something better, knowing Steve would be coming.

Then he stared at the steam rising up from the chipped mugs and wondered why the quality of the drinks service mattered a jot at this point.

“Buck?”

He’d taken too long again.

He tossed the spoon into the sink with a vitriol it probably didn’t deserve. “I left you a note.”

Steve gave a humourless snort behind him. “Yeah, you sure did.”

He heard Steve shuffling something and looked back to see he’d produced a scrap of paper from his jacket.

He recognised it immediately. His own blocky handwriting. Sister Agatha must be turning in her grave. Still no cursive. That ruler didn’t fix a damn thing.

Still, at least she didn’t have to worry about him using his left anymore.

He could read the paper from across the room.

_I just can’t do it, Stevie_

_Sorry_

_B_

He winced at his choice of wording.

“Yeah… I can see how…” Something guilty twisted in his gut, like a dying animal. He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “For the record, I was talking about the trial.”

“Yeah, well, if you could be a bit more specific next time, that’d be great.”

The guilty thing grew legs and teeth. “Fuck you.”

“That’s mature.” Steve sighed. “Jesus Christ, Bucky! How many times are you gonna keep doin this? You got so many people-“

“Well, I didn’t ask em to! I didn’t ask you to! I was fine!” At some point in that he’d stepped forward, he was up in Steve’s face. He stalked away, snatched up his coffee so hard that it spilled over his hand. “It was you that brought your pissing contest to my door, not the other way round.”

He could see Steve trying to keep his composure, saw the exact moment he failed and just crumpled onto the sofa, like all the will to defend himself had just seeped out through his boots. “I know.”

He was pretty sure winning always felt as bad as this.

“I know.” Steve dropped his head into his hands. “I was just tryin to make it right. And then you took off. You didn’t take anything with you. Not even a coat. And I was scared, I was shit scared I was gonna find you dead and it was gonna be my fault.”

He was moving before he realised, dropping to his knees in front of him. “It’s not your fault. I promise. It’s me. I’m sorry.”

Cos he recognised it wasn’t normal. He honestly did. Normal people didn’t waltz off and leave a pseudo suicide note behind for their buddy to find. Normal people didn’t think they could just disappear and no one would look for them.

Steve grasped his hand. “Don’t be. Don’t be sorry. Just… Just give me something here.”

He wanted to. He really did. But he didn’t know. It wasn’t like he’d planned it. It wasn’t like he even knew he was gonna do it. He just woke up one morning and knew.

“I couldn’t do it, Stevie. I just couldn’t.”

“But I don’t understand. I knew you weren’t happy with Ethan, but he was confident. He knew what he was doin, Buck. He did. But we coulda got someone else if you’d wanted. You only had to say.”

Ethan Stein, Esq. Twenty-five at most. Supremely confident about almost everything, especially himself.

He hadn’t listened to a damn thing Bucky had said for the first month of briefings, and after that had refused to meet with him without Steve being present.

Which suited Bucky just fine, given he’d opted out of any dialogue just after that.

He wasn’t gonna say the same thing over and over.

He looked away, tried and failed to pull his hand out off Steve’s. “It weren’t gonna make any difference.”

“What wasn’t? I don’t understand.”

Bucky didn’t look back. He refused. That look on Steve’s face was an entirely unfair advantage.

“Buck, you’ve gotta talk to me here, because I don’t get it.”

“It was me.”

“What?” Steve was frowning like he didn’t have a clue.

“I did it. I did all of it. I can’t stand up there and say I didn’t. I can’t lie.”

“That’s what..? It isn’t about that…” Steve was squeezing his hand too tight. He couldn’t get his words out.

Bucky winced as his bones started to grind together. “Stevie.”

Steve seemed to come to himself, dropped his hand like it was scalding hot. “Bucky, you’ve got to come back. They can convict you in absentia, do you understand what that means? Because you left after the trial had started.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Do you want to be punished, is that it?”

“No, I…”

He didn’t know how to finish. Had the sudden hysterical thought that he oughta be reciting name and rank.

Anti-interrogation training. One of the more pointless things he’d ever done, given Hydra neatly proved exactly how easy he was to break.

“Bucky?” Steve was squeezing his hand again, more gently this time. “Buck? What were you gonna say?”

“I can’t.” For the briefest of seconds, he wasn’t sure whether he was talking about the trial, or about answering Steve’s question. He took a deep breath. Remembered Sam’s advice. Get his thoughts in order before trying to start. To breathe. “I can’t go back into a cage, Stevie. I can’t. I’ll walk out into the sea before I do that.”

Ricky McGregor had done that. After his wife left him for the greengrocer. Like something out of a bad dime novel.

He heard Steve’s rushed breath, felt his hand squeeze tighter. “I won’t let that happen.”

Filled all his pockets up with rocks. Washed up at the docks three days later. Bloated out until his skin had split open.

“Bucky, you hear me? I won’t let it happen.”

“I know.”

That was why he left. Now he thought about it, that was the answer to Steve’s question all along.

Because he knew what would happen, what Steve would give up. He’d already done it once and by some miracle he’d managed to charm his way back in. Bucky wasn’t gonna let him do it again.

But Steve was just so earnest, and, despite a whole lifetime of evidence to the contrary, he was so hopeful.

Sure, the world had had some of the shine knocked off it, but at his heart, Steve honestly believed that everything would turn out just swell.

There’d never been any room for darkness or despair in him.

Bucky didn’t want to see the light knocked out of him.

Steve slipped his way off the sofa and onto his knees, pulled him into a hug. “Listen, if it comes to it, we’ll run. I promise. Ain’t like we haven’t done it before, right jerk?” He jostled him a bit. “Liftin candy from Mr McAllister’s.”

Bucky smiled a smile he really wasn’t feeling. “That was what? Nineteen twenty-six? Let it go, Rogers.”

“I had an asthma attack trying to get over the fence at the bottom of Warren Street.”

“You were a terrible accomplice.”

“Pretty good patsy though.”

“Shut up, I went back for you!”

 Steve pulled him tighter. He felt the huff of his breath against his neck. “I know you did.”

Bucky sighed, pulled back until he could see his face, the way his eyes were wet again. Seemed like Stevie was just determined to break his heart over him.

The guilty thing was back in his gut, less full of claws than before. Now it was just sad.

There was only one thing he could do.

“I’ll come back with you.”

It felt like signing his own warrant.

Stevie evidently didn’t see it that way. He even managed to crack a smile. Well, most of one anyway.

He tugged him back into a hug, pressed a kiss to the side of his jaw. “It’ll be alright. You just gotta trust me on that.”

He reckoned he’d always trust Stevie. Had done since he was nine years old. Would do til they finally put him in the ground.

It was the whole rest of the world he wasn’t so sure on.

**Author's Note:**

> I started this as a quick thing to try and work through my writer's (and editor's) block, and I shit you not, I ended up researching legal defence and google street-mapping Buenos Aires (neither of which was actually relevant) Hopefully it was worth it!
> 
> 'Die Spinne' was the name given to the network responsible for smuggling high ranking Nazis into Argentina and the rest of South America after WWII.


End file.
